


Interim

by Corvid_Knight



Series: Mutantstuck [30]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen, Mutantstuck, Suicide mention, but it's super brief, instrusive thoughts, my sib named this one (ty detective)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:22:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28141578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corvid_Knight/pseuds/Corvid_Knight
Summary: And what, exactly? What are you even gonna do? Go find one of the kids and lay your problems on them instead of keeping them to yourself? Of course that'd be your first thought, and like you said to D maybe five times before he threatened to mix dye into your conditioner if you ever said it to him again, there's a reasonfirstrhymes withworst.Ambrose isn't exactly in control of his own head. Davepeta's got some advice and some distractions.
Series: Mutantstuck [30]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1309922
Comments: 5
Kudos: 37





	Interim

It's funny, if you think about it. Well. Not funny. Not a lot funny about the lil' voice in your head that's one hundred percent convinced of what you're gonna turn into. Confusing? Weird? Something like that.

Loud. It's loud. That's not what you're gonna think about right this sec, though. Nevermind how loud it is, how inescapable the scenarios it (you?) keep spooling out are ( _how much more you'll end up fucking up Dave eventually, what the man who you could have been and aren't really did to him, how you could make absolutely fuckin' sure you never hurt him ever again._ ) That shit's stupid—you'd call it some kinda anxiety, but you don't _feel_ all that anxious. You know what that feels like. You guess you feel...

...well, tired. Maybe tired. Tired is a hell of a lot closer than anything else you can think of. You _know_ who you are. You _know_ you'd never hurt him, not again—no, fuck, _you_ never did. Even if you go by shit you remember experiencing even if it technically happened before you were alive, you've never consciously hurt him. Closest you've come is what, smacking his hands away from a running sewing machine? What else are you supposed to do to keep a toddler from getting a needle through his finger? _No_ isn't reliable enough at that age, and you couldn't just scoop him off his feet and away when you were sitting at the desk working with the damn thing.

(Dave didn't even cry, just stepped back and lost his balance and sat down hard on the floor. It doesn't matter. You fucked up then, and you can do it again. No, you will. You fuckin' will.)

God damn but that's annoying.

It's not anxiety. Not really. More like you're lying here in the room you never really got around to redecorating—sure you've accumulated shit, but it's still obvious that D set this one up with Rose and Roxy in mind, and you're okay with that—literally fucking arguing with yourself. Like, it's all mental—D talks to himself out loud but you sort of never picked up that habit—but still. Ain't exactly something someone normal does, now is it?

Then again, you're a mutant, even if you didn't realize it for over twenty fucking years. Dumb ass for that. Dumb ass twice for what you did to Dave, for not using one of the swords you knew were in that apartment on yourself instead of him.

(Nope. Shut it. That wasn't even you, Ambrose.)

Still—no, _not_ still. Why the fuck is part of your brain still on about this? You know you're not the one who hurt Dave. The guy who did that hurt you too; you've got scars to prove it, and even if you don't want to look at them all you gotta do is check out a mirror, since your hair still isn't at the length you like from how he cut it. You have _two_ swords, not the dozens Dave grew up surrounded by. There's three piercings in each of your ears, not the one that the bastard you almost were had, and you've got earrings in all of them—Roxanne's titanium studs, a pair of little stainless fixed-ball hoops with tiny skulls for the balls from Reaux, and peach-shaped gold charms on locking danglies from D.

Those last ones are in the newest holes—maybe a couple hours old. They still sting, too, but that's your own fault for putting the collar back on and blocking your self-healing powers. In your defense, you knew what you were doing. Sort of. Stupid half of your brain wants to be so insistent on how you deserve pain, you might as well do something you've been meaning to do since D gave you those earrings _and_ give stupid brain what it wants. Two birds with one stone, or whatever.

The plan isn't really working all that well. Of course it's not. Nothing's ever that easy, is it.

Well, except—

"God fucking damn it, shut _up_ ," you mumble. Alright, you guess laying here isn't working—time to sit up, make a failed grab at the pillow that motion knocks off the bed, and...

And what, exactly? What are you even gonna do? Go find one of the kids and lay your problems on them instead of keeping them to yourself? Of course that'd be your first thought, and like you said to D maybe five times before he threatened to mix dye into your conditioner if you ever said it to him again, there's a reason _first_ rhymes with _worst_.

God _fucking_ damn it.

Cal. Cal's right there, safely out of sight in his lovingly crafted and luxuriously padded box under your bed—you lean over and flip the lid open, hooking a hand under one lightly stuffed arm to drag him out. His hat's crooked; you fix that, run one hand down his front to smooth the wrinkles out of the shirt (making a note to yourself that you need to get around to replacing the Astros colors with either a team you give a shit about or something a lil' more geographically appropriate; it's been a good year since he was in Houston and longer since you were there willingly) and settle him on your lap while you take a breath.

And another one. Deep and slow. Deliberate and mindful, like you're in anger management again. Should you look into adding that to the monthly therapy calendar? Eh, maybe. Not like you've had issues with that specific shit since you were, what...seventeen? What were you even _doing_ when you were seventeen?

Lying a lot, probably. That used to be about eighty percent of your daily life, especially before you and Roxanne got all four of y'all out of the fuckin' system, and it took you a while to get out of the habit. Big lies, lil' lies, the whole fucking collection. At least you got over _that_ shit, even if you're still a menace to anyone close to you.

No, no you're not. You're not a menace. That's dumbass brain talking. Dumbass brain needs to get its shit together so you can get on with your life. You need to...you don't even know, but there's probably something. Something you gotta leave the room for, obviously. Can't do normal daily tasks when you're having a new and improved flavor of breakdown in your room...

The bell on the door jingles and you nearly drop Cal. Holy shit, you were just about asleep sitting up. Which means that's got to be Davesprite. 

Nope. Davepeta, which is...huh. Easier to handle than their brother would be right now, weirdly enough? Like, there's still a spike of worry in your chest, but not the rush of thoughts and—fuck, you don't want to call them impulses. Calling them impulses would imply you wanted to act on them, and you'd rather lock a collar around your neck, make sure Wade knew to have you cremated without taking it off, lock yourself in the bathroom, and slit your wrists.

Alright why the fuck do you have such a clear and plausible suicide plan. You should probably talk to someone about that.

Not Davepeta, though. They pause in the doorway for a moment, mismatched eyes meeting yours with a directness that still weirds you out when it comes from a family member; then they hum thoughtfully and step across the room to settle on the bed next to you, long legs pulled up underneath themself. "You look like shit."

Damn. "Oh?"

"Yeah, that's how you start this kind of stuff, right?" Davepeta hums—it's got a weird rough note to it, halfway between a purr and you don't know what—and leans over sideways until their shoulder's pressed against yours. If it was Davesprite, you'd feel a wing slipping down to drape across your back, but Davepeta doesn't have those. Just the down feathers up their arms and across their shoulders, soft and surprising every time they wear a tank top. "You look like shit, so you need some company. Or help. Or something. It's like, an excuse or some shit."

"Ah. Guess that makes sense." You sigh and resettle Cal in your lap, freeing up an arm to wrap around the kid. "You telling me I _don't_ look like shit, then?"

"Hmm." Davepeta's head tilts, regarding you thoughtfully (if at a bit of an angle) for a good couple seconds. "Nah. I just know."

"Uh huh. And what _do_ you know, kiddo?" Might as well feel them out here, you guess. Find out if Davesprite tipped them off, or if they've just picked up the spooky kinda talents that the Lalonde side of the family seems so inclined to. It'd be funny if Davepeta ended up sorted into that side instead of yours, honestly. Roxanne would love it.

"Well." Another weird little noise, and Davepeta bumps their head insistently against your shoulder until you take the hint and reach up to work your fingers through the curls that're always _just_ tangled enough to make this kind of petting something you gotta concentrate on. Not necessarily something you need to look at, but you do it anyway; it's weirdly fascinating, trying to pinpoint where the white-blond roots shade into deep black ends. It's the kind of look Reaux would have killed for at sixteen, and on this kid it's all natural. "You don't disappear for two hours without texting Dirk or Hal to find out where they put your tools this time if you're fine."

"Shit, it's been two hours?" Oh god damn it. No wonder the rescue party's been dispatched. How the fuck can you lose track of time this badly?

"Calm _down_." Davepeta emphasizes that command with another hard bump of their head against your shoulder, one feline ear flicking against your neck. "We were just gonna let you chill, y'know. Davesprite got worried when he got a flash of your dreams and sent me in."

"No offense, but how come he sent you?"

Their head tips back against your hand. Mismatched eyes blink slowly at you, the pupils widening from slits to round light-eating circles, like you're the darkest spot in the room. Sounds about right just now, honestly.

(Stop that, you dumb fuck. Or at least keep it off your face. Kid doesn't need to know what you're thinking about. Not when it's that.)

Davepeta's nose wrinkles up, and they reach up to poke at your nose. "You're trying to hide something. Emphasis on _trying_."

Well, shit. "And how can you tell, kiddo?"

They hum, head cocking as they consider that lil' question. "Hmm. So you like, tense up? Not a lot—Dave wouldn't notice, neither of them would. There's lines around your mouth that aren't always there. I wanna say your pupils contract a lil' bit but I'd need to _consciously_ focus on checking that, not just on picking up vibes."

"Holy shit, Davepeta." That's human-lie-detector territory. You're not even weirded out, just impressed.

"Yeah, I dunno who's even responsible for that?" Davepeta shrugs and lays their head against your shoulder, eyes flicking up to you before they close them. "Like it's not just a _me_ thing, if that makes sense."

"Uh...no."

"Dammit." They open their eyes just long enough to roll them at you with a dramatic, barely-serious huff. "Okay, so. Some things are _me_ things, right? Just Davepeta. Just me."

" ...right."

"Some things are Davesprite things, or Nepeta things—they're always a lil' bit louder, y'know. Probably 'cause of like, the genetic thing, but I don't think it's _all_ about who my Primes were? Like—" Davepeta makes a face and flips a hand at Cal, who's still patiently lying face-up on the bed beside you, painted eyes fixed on the ceiling. "He's not even alive and I got him in my head."

"Uh." See, that sounds like something you should maybe be concerned about. "Not to get you all sidetracked, but what the _fuck_ does that mean, exactly?"

"It's not _really_ Lil' Cal." They shrug, a movement so slight you wouldn't notice it if they weren't snuggled up against your shoulder. "It's like, me but not-me. In my head but not-me."

"...alright." You're not going to say that makes sense to you, because it doesn't. Unfortunately, you don't have a fucking clue what the right questions to ask to get the info you need are. "Is this, like. A good thing? Bad thing? Mutant thing?"

"Definitely not a mutant thing—even if I'd been a direct secondary like you and they'd done the things they did to me this would be a thing, I think. Good or bad...I mean, I dunno if Rose would—"

"No, kiddo, for you." For Dave it'd be bad, for Davesprite it _might_ be bad—Cal fucks both of them up—but Davepeta's different. "Asking how you feel about it, not what you think she'd think."

Davepeta frowns, considers for a moment, and then shrugs. "I dunno? Cal's not like Davesprite or Nepeta—he's not, like, really into being up front unless we're fighting."

"...huh. Like, with them or with—"

"Oh, no, fighting like, y'know." Davepeta smiles in a way that isn't really a smile, showing a mouthful of too-sharp-to-be-human teeth and making a clawing motion with one hand. " _Inside_ fights're different."

Two possible things to focus on here. One, the obvious mental shit that you're starting to think isn't even a problem—it's obviously not a new thing, Davepeta doesn't seem even a lil' bit bothered about it, and you're not totally qualified to even figure out what it is anyway. At the most you should remind them to bring it up with their therapist. Two, fighting. Fighting with someone not in their own head, and not _you_ , fuckin' obviously, probably not any of your siblings or Dave so who the _fuck_ is fighting one of your kids. Probably your youngest kid; age is fucking confusing with clones like you and them, you've had a few breakdowns over it yourself, but Davepeta's definitely a lil' bit younger than Dave. If anything it's a tie between them and Davesprite, which doesn't make them _not_ the youngest kid. Which means—

Means you failed. You're a shit protector, what the fuck are you worth if you can't guard even one of your kids? Can't keep anybody safe, can't—

Davepeta reaches up and bops you on the nose with the side of their hand. It's not _painful_ , exactly, but it's ungentle enough to startle you out of the spiral of the beguilingly correct voice in your head that's been speaking to you for the past few hours and apparently ain't about to stop now. They blink when you focus on them again, head tilting to the side.

"What?" You have to ask that. Not that you expect to have anything cleared up.

"You know what." They hum and shift to tuck their face against your shoulder for a moment; you feel their breath against your shirt and wonder for a second if the last shower you took falls within a reasonable window. (It was somewhere between last night and this morning, so...yeah. It does.) "Bad headspace is something you try to hide, stupid."

"Oh damn, it's been a whole two days since a teenager called me stupid. You broke my streak. Lil' shit." You roll your eyes and ruffle their hair. The little giggle you get in return is, like. Worth going through a lot of shit for, honestly. "Alright, fine. Ain't in the best brain spot right now. You got any ideas?"

"Talk to somebody?"

"No." You should probably think for at least a second before you make that call, but...no. Putting the shit in your head into audible words? Putting it where someone else has to look at it? No. _Fuck_ no. "Sorry, kid, but that one's off the table right now."

"Even if it's Aunt Roxanne?" Davepeta rolls their head enough to the side that they can examine you with the green eye.

" _Especially_ if it's Roxanne." Talking to her is easier, sometimes—not so much because of the telepathy thing as the twin thing—but this is...different. Tell her now and the next time she was near you without the collar she'd check for those thoughts, and god help you but you can't handle the thought of her knowing what it's like to have them. "I just—look, you don't actually have to come up with ideas. Ain't your job."

"No, I know that." They make a face and settle down against your side again, humming as you shift an arm around them properly. "But you're, like. Hurting. Davesprite wouldn't tell me a lot, but he caught something _bad_ out of your dreams."

" _Shit_." You didn't even think about that. Fuck— he's just a kid, he shouldn't have to know about that, it's your fault that he—

Davepeta bops you again. "Stop that."

"Not how it works, kiddo."

"Ah." They make a face, when you look at them—equal parts sympathy and disgust, with the latter directed more at the situation than at you. " _Those_ kind of thoughts, huh?"

"Kid—"

"They're upsetting. They _hurt_ , right? Doesn't feel like you thinking them because you couldn't think that shit, but it's like, gotta be you because it's super specific and you're the only one who'd think that?"

"Well...yeah. You're not wrong." Shit. This is another Actual Thing, isn't it. A symptom, or some shit. You probably shouldn't be this relieved about that. "Alright. I'll bite. What's it called?"

Part of you doesn't expect an answer. Maybe you read this situation wrong, maybe Davepeta's getting at something else entirely, you don't fucking know, but you're still kinda surprised when they shrug and answer with barely a hesitation. "Intrusive thoughts, maybe? I'm not the one who's good at knowing about this stuff. You should really bring that up for your next session, bro."

"Uh huh. I'll think about it."

"You better. You know what else you should do?" 

"Am I supposed to guess?"

"Nope." They smother a laugh in their hand, rubbing their head against your shoulder. "Let's get Neet and go to the park."

"Shit, you know I always worry I'm gonna lose her when Dave's not there—"

"Yeah, that's the point? You're gonna focus on her and on me, and it'll shut up the other shit." Davepeta squirms out from under your arm, tugging you to your feet. "It's not, like, permanent, but it might work for a little while, right?"

...y'know what, yeah. They're probably right. And hey, it's probably better to hang out with them than it would be to just hide out in your room for fucking hours, anyway, and this will make them _happy_. That's worth it even if you end up getting jack shit else out of this whole situation.

"Yeah, alright. Go tell D where we're going and let me put Cal away, and I'll meet you outside."

They flash you a grin as they bounce off the bed towards the door. Honestly, that alone makes this shit worth it.


End file.
